had been an autumn storm of wind and rain, lasting for three days. Thunderous had been the crash of billows on the rocks, wild the white spray and spume that blew over the bar, troubled and misty and tempest-torn the erstwhile blue peace of Four Winds Harbor. Now it was over, and the shore lay clean-washed after the storm; not a wind stirred, but there was still a fine surf on, dashing on sand and rock in a splendid white turmoil — the only restless thing in the great, pervading stillness and peace.
“Oh, this is a moment worth living through weeks of storm and stress for,” Anne exclaimed, delightedly sending her far gaze across the tossing waters from the top of the cliff where she stood. Presently she scrambled down the steep path to the little cove below, where she seemed shut in with rocks and sea and sky.
“I’m going to dance and sing,” she said. “There’s no one here to see me — the seagulls won’t carry tales of the matter. I may be as crazy as I like.”
She caught up her skirt and pirouetted along the hard strip of sand just out of reach of the waves that almost lapped her feet with their spent foam. Whirling round and round, laughing like a child, she reached the little headland that ran out to the east of the cove; then she stopped suddenly, blushing crimson; she was not alone; there had been a witness to her dance and laughter.
The girl of the golden hair and sea-blue eyes was sitting on a boulder of the headland, half-hidden by a jutting rock. She was looking straight at Anne with a strange expression — part wonder, part sympathy, part — could it be? — envy. She was bareheaded, and her splendid hair, more than ever like Browning’s “gorgeous snake,” was bound about her head with a crimson ribbon. She wore a dress of some dark material, very plainly made; but swathed about her waist, outlining its fine curves, was a vivid girdle of red silk. Her hands, clasped over her knee, were brown and somewhat work-hardened; but the skin of her throat and cheeks was as white as cream. A flying gleam of sunset broke through a lowlying western cloud and fell across her hair. For a moment she seemed the spirit of the sea personified — all its mystery, all its passion, all its elusive charm.
“You — you must think me crazy,” stammered Anne, trying to recover her selfpossession. To be seen by this stately girl in such an abandon of childishness — she, Mrs. Dr. Blythe, with all the dignity of the matron to keep up — it was too bad!
“No,” said the girl, “I don’t.”
She said nothing more; her voice was expressionless; her manner slightly repellent; but there was something in her eyes — eager yet shy, defiant yet pleading — which turned Anne from her purpose of walking away. Instead, she sat down on the boulder beside the girl.
“Let’s introduce ourselves,” she said, with the smile that had never yet failed to win confidence and friendliness. “I am Mrs. Blythe — and I live in that little white house up the harbor shore.”
“Yes, I know,” said the girl. “I am Leslie Moore — Mrs. Dick Moore,” she added stiffly.
Anne was silent for a moment from sheer amazement. It had not occurred to her that this girl was married — there seemed nothing of the wife about her. And that she should be the neighbor whom Anne had pictured as a commonplace Four Winds housewife! Anne could not quickly adjust her mental focus to this astonishing change.
“Then — then you live in that gray house up the brook,” she stammered.
“Yes. I should have gone over to call on you long ago,” said the other. She did not offer any explanation or excuse for not having gone.
“I wish you WOULD come,” said Anne, recovering herself somewhat. “We’re such near neighbors we ought to be friends. That is the sole fault of Four Winds — there aren’t quite enough neighbors. Otherwise it is perfection.”
“You like it?”
“LIKE it! I love it. It is the most beautiful place I ever saw.”
“I’ve never seen many places,” said Leslie Moore, slowly, “but I’ve always thought it was very lovely here. I — I love it, too.”
She spoke, as she looked, shyly, yet eagerly. Anne had an odd impression that this strange girl — the word “girl” would persist — could say a good deal if she chose.
“I often come to the shore,” she added.
“So do I,” said Anne. “It’s a wonder we haven’t met here before.”
“Probably you come earlier in the evening than I do. It is generally late — almost dark — when I come. And I love to come just after a storm — like this. I don’t like the sea so well when it’s calm and quiet. I like the struggle — and the crash — and the noise.”
“I love it in all its moods,” declared Anne. “The sea at Four Winds is to me what Lover’s Lane was at home. Tonight it seemed so free — so untamed — something broke loose in me, too, out of sympathy. That was why I danced along the shore in that wild way. I didn’t suppose anybody was looking, of course. If Miss Cornelia Bryant had seen me she would have forboded a gloomy prospect for poor young Dr. Blythe.”
“You know Miss Cornelia?” said Leslie, laughing. She had an exquisite laugh; it bubbled up suddenly and unexpectedly with something of the delicious quality of a baby’s. Anne laughed, too.
“Oh, yes. She has been down to my house of dreams several times.”
“Your house of dreams?”
“Oh, that’s a dear, foolish little name Gilbert and I have for our home. We just call it that between ourselves. It slipped out before I thought.”
“So Miss Russell’s little white house is YOUR house of dreams,” said Leslie wonderingly. “I had a house of dreams once — but it was a palace,” she added, with a laugh, the sweetness of which was marred by a little note of derision.
“Oh, I once dreamed of a palace, too,” said Anne. “I suppose all girls do. And then we settle down contentedly in eight-room houses that seem to fulfill all the desires of our hearts — because our prince is there. YOU should have had your palace really, though — you are so beautiful. You MUST let me say it — it has to be said — I’m nearly bursting with admiration. You are the loveliest thing I ever saw, Mrs. Moore.”
“If we are to be friends you must call me Leslie,” said the other with an odd passion.
“Of course I will. And MY friends call me Anne.”
“I suppose I am beautiful,” Leslie went on, looking stormily out to sea. “I hate my beauty. I wish I had always been as brown and plain as the brownest and plainest girl at the fishing village over there. Well, what do you think of Miss Cornelia?”
The abrupt change of subject shut the door on any further confidences.
“Miss Cornelia is a darling, isn’t she?” said Anne. “Gilbert and I were invited to her house to a state tea last week. You’ve heard of groaning tables.”
“I seem to recall seeing the expression in the newspaper reports of weddings,” said Leslie, smiling.
“Well, Miss Cornelia’s groaned — at least, it creaked — positively. You couldn’t have believed she would have cooked so much for two ordinary people. She had every kind of pie you could name, I think
